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Thursday, 30 April 2015

I didn't mean to, it just sort of happened. One minute he was staring out of a friends Facebook feed and the next he was in the garden, mowing the lawn. In fact he was cheaper than a lawnmower.

His name is Dexter. He is five. He has a huge floppy fringe which hide knowing and friendly eyes. His muzzle fits neatly into my hand and his ears are always alert, looking for people to play with. His feet are the size of dainty saucers and his bony legs feel like they may just snap. Dexter is not very big at all but he will be perfect for P and A.
He was half the price of an iPad and will cost less to keep a month than the cats, but I still feel the weight of responsibility that I er, just bought a pony.

Saturday, 25 April 2015

It doesn't sound like a nice thing to do, but I can assure you that it is. Clearing the fields of horse poo is a thankless task to many, but for me it holds so many therapeutic benefits.

There is time to think, to let your mind wander and let all the things bothering you slot into their rightful place.

There is time to observe, all around the spring flowers burst forth. Frothy mayflower and scented bluebells who tower above a carpet of white, starry wood anemone. The insects in the grass, the swallows swooping and diving in between building nests for their young. A bird of prey, perhaps a hawk, hovers on the thermals in the valley below. The horses graze, heads down, filling their bellies on spring grass.

There is time to listen, to the birdsong unidentifiable but pretty. To hear the silence that is nature. The occasional snort of the horses as they clear their noses and whisk their tails, to swat any early flies out of the way.

Fletch wanders over occasionally to see what I am doing, I talk, he nuzzles in my pocket, sniffs the wheelbarrow and walks away. He comes back at intervals to check all is the same as I work, clearing the fields of his excrement. I think he appreciates it somehow.

Monday, 20 April 2015

The music pumped out of the various rides, enticing us on - scream if you want to go faster. The sun was low in the sky, saying goodbye to another beautiful spring day in Sussex. The gaudy lights and flashing bulbs encouraged the kids into a frenzy. Two pounds fifty for the bumper cars, three pounds for the twister, another two pounds for a walk through some badly painted rooms and down a slide. And another one pound fifty for the mirror maze - but the toothless man selling this experience was too delightful to refuse, maybe a gypsy, maybe not - caring about our health and safety and letting him on for free, so that the children didn't walk straight into the mirrors. I thought that was the point.

All this catapulted me back to my youth, we looked forward to Bridgwater fair all year in Somerset. In fact we saved up for weeks. The excitement of fair week was palpable at school.

We'd work out what we were wearing in friendship groups, hang out by the cool rides and eat candy floss provocatively. For the fair was not just rides for entertainment, it was a pulling ground, a flirtatious place, a time of year when you hoped to bump into the boy you fancied or catch a wink from the gypsies selling the the fairground dream.

I smiled as we left our tame Sussex village version of a fair - a group of girls in hot pants and denim jackets, eating chips and toffee apples sauntered past us. And two minutes later a group of lads appeared from the other direction, staring sidewards out of their floppy fringes, looking but not looking.

Thursday, 9 April 2015

I filled up a little with tears in the supermarket, putting the olives, the feta and the interestingly-flavoured packets of crisps into my fiftieth plastic bag - it all felt so familiar here in Greece, so warm and fuzzy, so many happy memories of Corfu and a previous life.

"Yasass, efcharisto!" I blurted out two of my very few Greek words.

We stayed in Methoni which is on the mainland, a far cry from the resorts and island life. It was empty of people as I had predicted but full of glorious wild spring flowers, full of bright blue skies and a sea the most vivid turquoise, it had castles on every corner, crumbling and free to the visitor. The villages were sleepy, thinking about waking up for the tourist season, skinny cats crouched behind the bins hoping for some tit-bits, any food at all. They snoozed in the spring sunshine. Older women screamed in their language, all high pitched and shouty, like little boxes dressed all in black with a hair-do, fluffy and large. The men rested their stomachs between their legs on wicker based chairs, leaning into their walking sticks, smoking cigarettes and talking over coffee, after coffee. Their moustaches and flat caps gave their nationality away.

We wandered through the olive groves marvelling at the colours, wild orchids, bright pinks and delicate mauves, we picked up stray dogs along our way and passed fields of pastel beehives. We found churches so tiny and perfectly kept, with no more than six chairs for the congregation. And passed farms of sheep and goats, protected by fierce and hungry looking dogs on chains.

The beaches were deserted of people, the temperature too cold to swim but just perfect in a sheltered spot on the dunes. Bamboo had been washed up in piles along the shore line, a natural Lego, so that shelters and rafts could be made.

The food is the best in Europe. The pinkest and saltiest of tarama's to start, wiped clean with crusty, soft bread. Shiny olives hand picked from the groves, all purple and plump, the salad with its crumbly feta, against the green-yellow of the oil - drizzled liberally adding years to our life. Fresh fish simply grilled, sprinkled with oregano from the hills and garnished with tomatoes as big as your fist. It was difficult to find a restaurant open but when we did we felt we need not eat for a week.

Greece in spring is a delight, a well-kept secret before the searing heat and sun-worshippers. I will be back, to explore another corner of its land, perhaps just a week or two later in the year when the fireflies begin to dance and the tortoises wake up from their long winter sleep.

About Me

I have written a diary since I was 12. That's 26 years of my life accounted for in diaries collecting dust in the loft. Every single day written in detail, apart from 3 months whilst in Kenya when my bag was stolen on a bumpy bus ride to Lamu. And then one day in February 2012 I just stopped. I couldn't see the point any more. I wasn't prepared for the feelings that followed, that suddenly I had no record of the odd life encounters I was having, the places we visit and the people we meet. So instead I decided to share my reflections here - Firstly as Sussex Mama and as of July 2016, Mallorca Mama.